


Red, White & Navy Blue

by jedusaur



Category: Red White & Royal Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Enemies to Lovers, Fake Bromance, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Praise Kink, there's a puppy too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 11:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18690499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: "Fine," says Alex. He clenches his jaw and his fists. "Great. Watch me. I'll bromance the shit out of the motherfucker."





	Red, White & Navy Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Title is the Caps' official colors. Fandom is a romance novel that isn't out yet, but trust me, you're gonna want to preorder it. (It is not about hockey. Alex is the First Son of the United States and Henry is a prince. But in SPIRIT, they totally drop the gloves.) This doesn't contain major plot spoilers; there are some minor emotional-arc-type spoilers, but it's all translated to hockey and pretty predictable from the genre anyway, so I think it should be fine to read before the book.
> 
>  **EDIT:** the book is out now, go buy it!

The third most annoying rule Henry always breaks is the instigator rule. In three years of picking fights, he has never once been slapped with the extra two--just because Alex is the only one with the guts to drop the gloves first.

June rolls her eyes. "Looking down his nose at you does not count as instigating," she says.

The second most annoying rule Henry breaks is not wearing his last name on his jersey. He's the only player in the league who gets to wear his first name, ostensibly because his actual last name won't fit and the snob refuses to drop any of its three hyphenated components.

"You have a meltdown every time anyone except Mom or Dad drop half of your snobby hyphenated last name," June points out.

And the most annoying rule he breaks, the absolute cherry on the sundae, the whipped cream on the cow pie, the--

"Spit it out, we're running out of time."

"Hockey players," says Alex, "are not _allowed_ to be _that stupid hot._ "

"Great," says June. She takes her phone off its tripod and stops it recording. "This has been awesome, exactly what I was hoping for six minutes ago when I asked you an incredibly softball question about New York's penalty kill. Now, if you'll excuse me, you have another period to play and I have to go figure out whether the hits I'd get on this would be worth the shit I'd get from Mom for posting it."

"Post it," says Alex. "The world needs to know what a foaming pitcher of douche this guy is."

"DIAZ!" comes a bellow from the tunnel, and Alex hops to.

"Good luck in the third!" June calls after him.

Five minutes later, he's taking a swing at Henry's perfect, chiseled jaw and it is not _one tiny little bit_ his fault.

*

"Nine against Philadelphia... and six against Pittsburgh." Nora nods from the screen of Alex's phone. "Yup, across your career you've scored five or more goals against every other team in the division, but zero against New York."

"It makes no statistical sense!" Alex moans. "We don't even have a losing record against them over that timeframe, right? Why can't I fucking score?"

Nora shrugs. "It makes perfect statistical sense if you take into account your BUYB numbers."

"What?" Alex demands, trying to peek at her laptop screen through the phone. "My what? That's not in the NHL stats database. What does it stand for?"

"Bug Up Your Butt," says Nora, smirking. "When you see Henry on the ice you get all worked up and you play like shit, 100% of the time."

"I do not," protests Alex. "Do I? No, I don't."

"You verifiably do," she confirms.

Alex drops his phone onto his chest, irritated. "Well, it's not because he's better than me. It's just his obnoxious face."

Nora's voice floats up from his sternum. "Right. The stupid-hot one."

Alex snatches the phone back up to glare at her. "Yes, and anyone who gives me shit about that is a hypocrite. It's obvious that he's hot."

The video, with June's snarky commentary edited out, has racked up more than ten thousand views since yesterday. Zahra, head of Caps PR, is not amused. Alex doesn't read his Twitter mentions as far as anyone else knows, but privately he's carrying a lot of judgment for the (many, many) jackasses out there pretending they don't know perfectly well what a drop-dead gorgeous piece of shit the man is.

"Well, I don't know what else to tell you. If you want to score against the Rangers, tell your mom to put you in against a different D pair more often." Nora shrugs. "I gotta go."

"Thanks," Alex says gloomily and closes out the app. He pulls up the video of Henry's presser from last night and watches it again. It's spectacularly boring and full of cliches, like everything Henry does. Who combs their fucking hair for a postgame interview, for fuck's sake? Alex jerks off in a fit of pique and rolls over to go to sleep.

His cheek is all bruised up from where Henry punched it last night. He lays on it for a while, feeling the ache, and then huffs in frustration and jerks off again.

At least they don't play the Rangers again anytime soon. It will be an entire blessed month before he has to see Henry again.

*

The second he walks into the practice facility the next morning, Zahra seizes him in a death grip. "Conference Room J," she says. "Now.""

Zahra books conference room locations based on how loud she thinks the conversation is going to be. Rooms A and B, right by the locker rooms, are for the normal-volume chew-outs like that video June posted. Rooms C through F further down the hall are for the real shriekers, like when Alex and Nora faked a sex tape. Alex has a lot of fond memories of Room F.

He didn't know there _was_ a Room J. So... this should be good.

Zahra doesn't actually seem mad, though. After three years with the Caps, Alex is extremely familiar with the nuances of her face as she marches him down this hallway, and right now it's saying Crisis Management O'Clock but not Quarter to Conniption. He tries to think what he might have done, but he can't come up with anything bad enough to warrant excavating a whole new conference suite. Maybe someone died?

When they finally complete the mile-long trek through the building, Mom is there waiting for them, wearing her standard practice-day Caps tracksuit. So at least she's not the one who's dead. "Bad news for you, Claremont," she says, which means she's not mad at him either. Now he's really confused.

Then she says, "We just traded for Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor," and Alex gets it. They're not out in Siberia so they can yell at him. They're out in Siberia so _he_ can yell at _them_.

Because Henry is going to be on Alex's team. 

Henry. On Alex's team. In Alex's locker room. Wearing Alex's colors. Hugging Alex's teammates after goals. Fuck.

Well. He's not going to give them the satisfaction, no matter how anguished a wail he's dying to unleash right now. "Oh," he says, forcing the syllable to feign nonchalance against its will.

Zahra isn't buying it. "You don't get to act out this time," she warns. "After that video, we're only getting one shot here. You welcome him to the team, you tell the media all that nastiness is behind you now that you're on the same side, and you two build the most beautiful bromance this league has ever seen. Charity events, public lunches, hugs, fistbumps, tweets containing a minimum of seven affectionate emojis, et god damn cetera. Do you hear me?"

Alex glowers. He's not an idiot--he knows he has no choice here, that bad blood can poison the room. His team is more important to him than any jackass Brit. Of course he'll do it. But that doesn't mean he's going to be happy about it.

"Do you _hear_ me," Zahra repeats, less a question than a threat.

"Fine," says Alex. He clenches his jaw and his fists. "Great. Watch me. I'll bromance the shit out of the motherfucker."

*

Henry arrives mid-practice and joins them on the ice. He's on the other scrimmage squad, but without Mom line-matching behind the bench it's not hard to engineer it so they're not on the ice together too much. Alex just pretends he's having an equipment issue when it's his turn and voila, he's a second-liner and Henry is shutting down someone else's overambitious deke.

In the locker room, Henry takes off his helmet and Alex bites back a scoff. It's _inhuman_ for hair to look that good straight out of a hockey helmet. It literally should not be possible. The lack of sweat he can blame on the fact that Henry was only out there for twenty minutes, but that hair is just flat-out unacceptable.

Unfortunately, the bromance of the century isn't just a media thing. The guys have to fall for it too, and some of them are already eyeing Alex with expressions ranging from trepidation to anticipatory glee. He'd better make his move now.

He steels himself. You miss a hundred percent of the shots you don't take, as some shitty Phoenix coach once said.

"Hey, Henry," he says, aiming for cheerful and landing in accusatory.

Henry turns around, as does everyone else who wasn't already watching. "Yes?" he says lightly, like he's expecting some kind of warm welcome. Which--yes, right--is the goal here, but he shouldn't be fucking expecting it.

Alex grits his teeth and musters up every scrap of the media training he's had to put up with during the six years since Mom got the head coach gig. Okay. Smile. Bromance for the ages. Here goes.

"Buy you a beer for that jaw hit if you buy me one for the cheek?"

"That's perfectly all right, it didn't quite connect." Henry smiles at him benevolently. "Though I'll gladly buy you one. I did rather a number on you, didn't I?"

Oh, _fuck_ this. Alex rips off his skate and stands up. He's gonna get banished to the KHL and it's gonna be fucking worth it.

Mom, who did not achieve the position of head coach by being clueless, barges into his sightline. "All right, team, listen up!" she yells, and dives into the details of Henry's role in their systems. She raises a threatening eyebrow at Alex, and he sits back down, steaming with fury.

So that's minute one.

*

"I found your doll," says Alex.

"Good afternoon," says Henry, taking a seat across from him. Alex tries not to scowl. It is not afternoon; it's noon exactly, because of course Henry the automaton shows up at the exact appointed time. 

They're at some kind of trendy lunch spot Zahra picked out, under strict instructions to look like they're having a good time. Which is why Alex leans close to Henry, intimately bumping his shoulder as he shows him the page from the NHL store he has pulled up on his phone. "Check it out. Looks exactly like you. Vapid stare and all."

Henry scrolls down the screen like he's interested in what Alex is showing him. The "related items" list shows a thumbnail of Alex's doll, which Henry immediately taps. "I'm not terribly impressed with these likenesses, to be honest," he says, instead of firing back something Alex can work with. Damn it.

The server shows up, and Alex has a minute to collect himself while they order. He's ready with a devastating quip about Henry's lack of genitals as soon as they're alone again, but before he has a chance to deploy it, Henry says earnestly, "Why do you dislike me so much?"

Alex stares, forgetting to look cozy for the paparazzi. "Are you serious?"

"I am," says Henry. "You don't hate everyone you've fought. I once overheard you making plans to meet up for karaoke with Braden Jamison while you had him in a headlock."

Alex can't fucking believe this guy. "You know what Jammer said to me the first time we met?" he demands. "He welcomed me to the league and gave me a good tip on a smoothie spot near Madison Square Garden. Doesn't that sound like a reasonable thing to say to someone you're meeting for the first time?"

Henry's brow furrows. "As I recall, our first interaction was when you cross-checked me into my goalie and then yelled obscenities at me all the way to the penalty box."

Alex buries his face in the drinks list, since the server already took their menus away. Maybe he'll get one of these grossly overpriced craft beers. Alcohol sounds real good.

"Did we meet before that?" Henry asks.

"We're not having this conversation in public," Alex says flatly. "Say something I can smile at."

To his very minor credit, Henry doesn't bat an eyelash. "The people in the hotel room next to mine have a puppy and they're trying to hide it," he offers. "They're not doing very well. This morning the gentleman who brought my room service heard a bark and rolled his eyes at me."

That actually does surprise a smile out of Alex. "Don't you have a dog?" he asks. That was in the pile of Henry Fox-Mountcreampuff-Windbag human interest tidbits Zahra made him slog through.

"I do," says Henry. "He's being cared for at a reputable kennel until I find my own place."

 _Cared for at a reputable kennel._ Jesus. Alex orders two different craft beers at once and silently dares Henry to try picking up the tab.

*

Next practice, Mom cottons on to what Alex is doing in the scrimmage and forces him to go up against Henry. He doesn't score. He's mad about it.

He's still mad about it when Henry waylays him after practice. " _What_ ," Alex snaps, and then feels bad when Henry looks honestly taken aback. Alex rubs his face. "Sorry," he mumbles. "What's up?"

"You said you didn't want to have a public conversation about when we met," Henry says, almost tentative. His ever-present obnoxious self-satisfaction is gone for the first time. It's kind of disorienting. "Perhaps this isn't a good time either."

"The draft," says Alex shortly. Better to get it over with. "You'd just gone third overall and I tried to congratulate you, and you looked at the security guy and said 'Is he allowed to be back here?'"

He'd been watching Henry in the pre-draft interviews. All of his answers were perfectly rehearsed, all of his polished charm perfectly deployed. His parents were Olympians, neither in hockey but both world-famous. He'd probably been practicing for this in the mirror his whole life.

Alex had never even seen an NHL game in person until he was a teenager. He'd grown up on college hockey, then SPHL hockey, then AHL hockey, while his mom worked her way up the coaching ranks. Alex could charm the pants off any reporter any day, but nothing he had could be described as polish.

"I apologize," says Henry.

"For what?" Alex crosses his arms. "For being a shit to someone who turned out to matter?"

Henry shakes his head. "Just for being a shit."

Alex snorts despite himself.

"There were a lot of people trying to sidle into my good graces that summer," says Henry. "It rather put me on edge. I prefer to assume the best of people, and that became impractical. But that's no excuse. And if you had been only a fan, it would have been even less acceptable. Please forgive my rudeness."

Goddamn, he even apologizes well. Ugh. Alex is still mad, but in the petulant way that he knows means he's not far off from giving in and letting it go. "I guess," he says noncommittally.

Henry glances back at the ice. "You don't agree with Coach Claremont's power play approach, do you?" he asks. "I could tell you were biting back a few words on the bench."

Alex takes the bait, but only because he knows it's bait and he chooses of his own volition to fall for it. "Talk to me about what you were doing with the umbrella formation in New York," he says. That shit was bananas.

Henry smiles, not one of the plastic ones he's been producing for their Zahra-mandated Twitter selfies but a real one. "Shall we find somewhere to discuss it over lunch?"

*

They play their first game together the next day, and Henry--to Alex's intense distress--is an absolute dream to play with. He knows when to challenge at the blue line and when to drop back, he defends against two-on-ones like he's three people, and his breakout passes are as perfect as his ridiculous hair. Alex wants to kiss him.

Then he realizes, with a heavy sense of inevitability, that he actually wants to kiss him.

"Uh-huh...?" says Nora when he tells her this, late that night. "Wait, you didn't know that? What exactly were you going for when you called him 'stupid hot' in that video?"

"Insults," says Alex morosely. "It was supposed to devastate him. I have no idea."

"Well, you've been on like three dates now," she says. "Does he seem into it?"

"The dates are mandated and I have never once seen him display a human emotion," Alex says, even though he has now. But he still has no clue whether Henry thinks of him that way.

"Heh," says Nora. "Man-dated."

"Noraaaa," Alex moans.

"Sorry," she says, sounding approximately fifty percent sincere. "Okay, listen, here's what you do. Take him on one of your bromance dates in the evening, somewhere nice, like a real date. Pick somewhere near his hotel, and then walk him back. He's not as much of a dumbass as you are, he'll figure it out."

*

Things Alex can do:

1\. Pick out a perfect date venue.  
2\. Look like heaven personified in a suit.  
3\. Provide an evening of sparkling conversation and sultry glances.

Things Alex cannot do:

1\. Get through an entire dinner with Henry Fox-Mountcroissant-Windbreaker without giving him any shit about his hair.

"I don't put anything in it," Henry protests. "It just doesn't tangle, it's naturally very smooth. I can't help it."

"It's genetically modified," Alex decides. "You breed fifteen generations of Olympians, you're gonna end up with something bizarre."

"Fifteen generations? The modern Olympics started in 1896."

Alex points at him vigorously, narrowly missing his third glass of wine. "See, the fact that you even know that off the top of your head is not normal."

"What year was the NHL formed?" Henry challenges him.

"Nineteen-sev--" Alex catches himself. "That's different!"

"Is it," says Henry smugly.

Alex isn't going to win that line of debate, so he refocuses. "We were _discussing_ your ridiculous hair. How is it never wet after you play? It just sproings out of your helmet all perfectly coiffed like a Ken doll. Do you not perspire?"

"Actually, we were _discussing_ Thursday's game against New Jersey," Henry corrects him. "I don't know how my hair came into it. And I must say I find it bewildering that you keep complimenting it as if you're insulting it."

Alex is about to go on the defensive when he remembers that the goal here is seduction. He reaches across the table and touches the hair by Henry's temple. It really is inhumanly smooth. "There's no product in this?" he asks.

"None at all." Henry lets him touch, looking like he's waiting for the punch line.

Alex hates being predictable.

"It's beautiful," he says, and grazes his fingertips along the shell of Henry's ear.

Henry's eyes widen. He stays there frozen for a moment, then almost knocks his chair over standing up. "I've got to go," he says. "I'll--I'll pay you back for the--" and then he's out the door.

So hey, Nora was right about him figuring it out. Didn't even have to walk him home.

*

Morning skate is awkward. The game against the Devils is even more awkward. Henry is perfectly polite as always, which means Alex is the one making it awkward, which just... it sucks. It really sucks.

Zahra doesn't bug them about keeping up the bromance. Nobody really cares anymore, now that there haven't been any punches thrown in a while. The media has let it go, and the team is getting used to having Henry around.

Alex misses the punches. At least when Henry was punching him, Alex knew he cared.

"Hey, you okay?"

Alex looks up. June is standing in the doorway of the locker room. He didn't notice the rest of the team leaving.

She comes over to sit next to him. "You don't look like someone who just beat New Jersey's pants off."

"I didn't," says Alex. "It was all Henry. He fired both of mine off the point, I just tapped them in. A six-year-old could've done it."

He can tell she knows. It's a relief that he doesn't have to tell her, and at the same time a disappointment that he doesn't get to.

"I hit on him," Alex tells her, just to have said it. "Did not go over well."

She lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it. "Come on. Mom's waiting in the car."

Alex fakes like he's fine so he won't have to answer any questions on the way home. As soon as he's in his room, he gets right back to deeply sighing. He'll get over it, eventually, but sometimes a person just needs a moment.

*

He's woken up at one in the morning by the phone he angstily left with the volume on in case Henry changed his mind and needed to declare his love. It is in fact Henry calling, which makes him question whether he's still dreaming, but not enough to let it go to voicemail.

"Henry? You okay?"

"I need to know what the laws are about dognapping in Washington, D.C.," says Henry.

Alex isn't any closer to convinced he's awake. "You what?"

"The puppy," Henry says impatiently. "The one my neighbors were trying to hide. She's loose in the hall, and I need to know: if I take her into my room, am I going to be arrested? I've no idea how she got out, but no one is answering their door."

"What's your room number?" Alex grabs his jeans.

"812. Why, are you--"

Alex hangs up and heads for the car.

*

"There is no reason for you to be here," Henry gripes. "I can handle a puppy alone."

"If that were true, you would have googled instead of calling me," says Alex. "Or concluded on your own that no one is going to put you in jail for taking in a lost puppy for the night. Hey, sweetheart, c'mere..."

The puppy approaches warily and licks his hand. He just about melts into the carpet.

"I bribed her in here with cheese," says Henry, observing from a distance. "She won't come near me since I ran out of it."

The room looks more lived-in than Alex would have imagined. He'd expected robotic minimalism, which isn't too far off, but there are books on the bedside table and snacks on the desk. Some kind of thick cookie with chocolate on it that does not look like it fits in their nutrition plan. Henry stays at a respectful distance, his eyes never leaving his fuzzy charge, and Alex is pretty much fucked.

"Come sit by me," he says. "I bet she'll let you pet her in a minute." She's leaning into his scritches now, sniffing his knee.

Henry gingerly eases himself down on Alex's other side and reaches out to offer the puppy his hand. She startles backwards and retreats to the corner, where she curls up, eyeing them distrustfully.

"Or not," says Alex. "Guess you're gonna have to buy some more cheese."

Henry leans against the side of the bed. "You didn't have to come."

"Well, I had to do something," Alex says. He's not talking about the dog.

Henry closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I panicked."

"It's fine," Alex lies. "Obviously you don't have to be into me. Just... it's been weird. I want it not to be weird. I guess I thought bonding over a puppy crisis might help." It does seem kind of silly now. The puppy's not thrilled with Henry, but she's not whimpering or anything. They didn't need Alex here.

"I wouldn't have panicked if I wasn't interested," says Henry quietly.

Alex's brain grinds to a halt. "You--what?"

"You joke around," says Henry. His eyes are unsettlingly bright. "It's what you do. And I couldn't bear it if you were joking around then."

"I wasn't," says Alex. "Henry..."

"Please kiss me," Henry whispers.

Alex has been digging in his heels in one direction or another for as long as they've known each other. Finally, he lets himself relax, and it turns out kissing Henry is his true resting state.

*

"Say it," says Alex.

"You can't possibly be serious," says Henry, squeezing Alex's dick.

"I have never been more serious in my life," says Alex. "Say it or I'm breaking up with you."

Henry sighs. "What precisely is it you want to hear?"

"You know exactly what I want to hear," says Alex. "Quit stalling."

"You want me to say that you scored in scrimmage today," Henry says, dryly indulgent.

"One-on-one," says Alex. "Nobody else in screaming distance. Little tighter."

Henry obediently adjusts his grip. "Yes, very well done."

"And you fell for my deke like I was selling you the Brooklyn Bridge," Alex pants.

"Do you want to hear about it, or would you perhaps rather tell me about it?" Henry inquires.

Alex doesn't even care that he's being mocked, because he _scored_ , damn it. "I'd rather hear about it," he says. "If you can string together two words."

Henry's eyes glint. "All right, then," he says, and licks Alex's neck. Alex gasps, pushing his hips up. "You broke out of your zone alone," Henry murmurs into his ear. "That bank pass to yourself, oh--your puck control is marvelous. Is that what you want to hear, love?"

Alex moans. He'll be embarrassed later, he's too turned on right now.

"Oh yes, I know what you're after." Henry kisses down Alex's throat and chest. "You took it in along the half-boards like you were going to shoot from an angle," he says, nuzzling Alex's abs. "And I fell for it, yes. I was defending the side of the net, and I didn't anticipate you stopping up short and backhanding it from the inside. I didn't even see where the puck had gone at first. Extraordinary move, really lovely. Shall I keep talking?" 

His lip is agonizingly rubbing up against the head of Alex's dick as he jerks him off. Alex can't even think. "Henry," he groans.

Henry takes him into his mouth, keeping a rhythm at the base with his fist. Alex bucks up wildly and Henry's head rides the motion, sucking in counterpoint. It's glorious, and Alex refuses to feel at all bad about remembering every detail of that goal as he tips over the edge.

Next door, the puppy barks. Henry coughs Alex's dick out of his mouth, laughing.

"God," says Alex. "Fuck you. I love you. Come here."

"Gladly, darling," says Henry, and pulls the blankets up over them both.


End file.
